Study in John
by chappysmom
Summary: After the events of "A Study in Pink," John lies on the couch in Baker Street and thinks about the whirlwind events of the day. What is he getting himself into?


John collapsed onto the sofa in 221B Baker Street. He hadn't officially moved in yet and didn't even have a change of underwear, but he was just too tired to go back to his bedsit tonight. Or, well, this morning, since it was already 2:30.

He really was exhausted, too, having had what you might call a full day. You know, get up, get dressed, stare at your empty computer screen for a few hours … and then, get a flat, visit a crime scene, get kidnapped, chase a cab halfway across London, shoot a serial killer, get dinner. Your normal day.

Was it any wonder his brain was churning too much for him to sleep?

He shifted on the sofa, trying to ease his sore leg. That was his own fault, he told himself, for running on a leg that hadn't held its own weight in months. Ella had been gently pushing him about the limp for months, but it hadn't made an impression. Nothing had until he found himself running after Sherlock, high on rooftops and adrenalin.

He couldn't stop thinking about how it had felt to run after Sherlock. To feel the wind in his face as he jumped (from a roof!) and pelted as fast as he could after a murderous cabbie. ("Come on, John, he's getting away!") He had been so intent on the chase he never gave his leg a thought. Instead he had relished feeling fit and able for the first time since that hot, dusty morning in Afghanistan when a bullet had torn through his shoulder.

Did Sherlock realize what he'd done, he wondered?

He thought back to the laugh they'd shared ("You invaded Afghanistan.") and the smile on the man's face when Angelo handed him his forgotten cane. It had been a knowing smile because Sherlock had been right about John's limp, but it had been a sincere smile. Not the smug, self-satisfied one like when Sherlock talked (down) to Lestrade, but an honest, happy smile.

Of all the geniuses he'd known, Sherlock out-geniused them all, in both smarts and ego. How did he balance being both utterly self-involved and yet hyper-aware of everything around him at the same time? How had he diagnosed John's limp so accurately and so quickly? And how on earth had he been able to effect a cure merely by distracting him? (Jumping in front of a car and then chasing a serial killer counted as a distraction, right?)

Rolling onto his back and watching the shadows play across the ceiling, John smiled to himself. Sherlock could probably be the most effective therapist in the country. All he needed to do was tell people their problems. John was quite sure he could do it. The problem was getting them to listen—and preventing them from regularly punching him in the face.

Come to think of it, Sherlock's older, creepier brother was quite a therapist in his way, too. Hadn't he essentially cured John's tremor with about five well-spoken sentences?

John rubbed at his shoulder, stiff from the couch, as he considered that. The whole evening had been such a whirlwind, he hadn't had a chance to think back to that remarkable conversation. (You know a night's been busy when being kidnapped drops this far down on the list of important events.)

What had Mycroft said? That Sherlock wasn't capable of having friends? Sergeant Donovan had said the same thing. So far as John was concerned, though, Sherlock was already the best friend he had. He'd been back in London for weeks and already felt closer to him than he had to anyone else. He'd seen some of his old army buddies, some old school mates—and Harry—but he hadn't felt drawn to any of them.

He wondered what that said about him. Even if he hadn't already liked Sherlock—difficult though he obviously could be—having people tell him NOT to be friends with the man rubbed him the wrong way. Who were they to decide who his friends were? Or to scare off Sherlock's friends? What kind of people _did_ that? I mean, assuming he wasn't actually a sociopath.

Besides, he knew all about the fellow-feeling-under-fire thing. It could just be the after-effect of the adrenalin high, but right now, at this moment, Sherlock was the closest thing to a friend he had. Time would tell if it would last once they got into the day-to-day routine of trying to share a flat, but for right now John was content.

He rolled over again, trying to get comfortable under the musty blanket Sherlock had pulled from somewhere. He really needed to get some sleep. He refused to look at the clock to see _how_ late it was, but he knew it was very late. If he wanted any rest before morning, he needed to sleep NOW.

In the army, he'd been able to fall asleep anywhere, and he refused to accept anything less now. Forcing himself to relax, forcing his mind to go still, he settled into the cushions … and slept.

#

"John. John, wake up!"

John's eyes flew open, pulse pounding in his ears as he took in the dark form near the couch. He started to surge to his feet, instantly alert, and then realized. This wasn't a nightmare. This wasn't Afghanistan. It wasn't his bedsit.

This was Baker Street, and that was his new flatmate standing a prudent three feet away, with the moonlight drawing lines of concern on his face.

John sank back to the couch and wiped a sweaty hand over his face. "Christ. Don't do that," he said.

"Are you all right?"

A curt nod. "Of course I'm all right." John could feel his heart rate slowing down and drew a long, deliberate breath. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep."

John forced a smile. "Because who sleeps at," he glanced at the clock, "four in the morning when there are so many more interesting things to be doing?"

"Not more interesting, sadly, but the quiet is conducive for thinking," Sherlock told him.

Oh. Right. And there was John having a nightmare in the next room. He started to open his mouth to apologize, but Sherlock cut him off. "In this case, I'm glad I was here." He turned toward the kitchen. "Tea?"

John nodded and stood up, legs shaky from the nightmare-fueled adrenalin. Telling them to behave, he followed Sherlock to the kitchen.

"The tea's over there," Sherlock pointed. "And there should be some mugs in that cabinet." Then he just leaned back against the wall and watched as John looked around and began assembling the tea things. As he filled the kettle. John wondered if Sherlock just assumed someone else would make the tea for him (like Mrs.-Hudson-Not-Your-Housekeeper), or if he was purposely giving John a task to help shake the nightmare.

"You're still limping," Sherlock observed as John moved around the kitchen.

John shrugged. "My own fault. After months with a cane, I probably should have warmed up before running after that cab. The muscles are out of practice."

A tentative smile from Sherlock. "We'll try to fit that in the schedule next time."

"Next time?"

"Of course." Sherlock sounded surprised.

Of course. Right. Naturally there'd be a next time. John poured boiling water into mugs and tried not to smile at the thought of more nights like this one. "Chasing serial killers happens often, does it?"

"Not serial killers, necessarily, no."

Carrying his mug to the table, John sat down, stretching out his leg. It hurt, yes, but it was the good burn of misused, freshly exercised muscles, and not the sharp pain that had driven him to the cane in the first place.

There was silence for a time as the two men sipped their tea, then Sherlock asked quietly, "Do nightmares happen often?"

John carefully set down his mug and stretched out his left hand. "Fairly often, yeah. Too much time in a war zone tends to do that." The words were barely out of his mouth before he regretted them. He tried not to hold his breath, waiting the obvious response of "this isn't a war zone."

But Sherlock surprised him. "Well, you're in luck. It's not exactly a war, but there are battles to fight here, too." He thought a moment then added, "Less artillery, though."

John just blinked at him. "That's what your brother said."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "My brother?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Yeah, when he kidnapped me last night. He told me that you see London as a battlefield, and…" he trailed off. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and waited.

John's brain was racing. Mycroft had said that he wasn't haunted by the war. While, yes, the horrific things he'd seen (and they _were_ horrific) did occasionally haunt his dreams, most of his nightmares were about him being unable to help the men who needed him, unable to save them. They were about being helpless, about failure.

His worst nightmare was being useless.

Staring into the steaming mug, John continued, all while wondering why he was confessing at this time of morning, "And he said that my problem isn't that I was haunted by the war, but that I miss it."

How could Mycroft possibly have known that? John didn't know how the man had gotten his therapist's notes, but he was pretty sure they said nothing like that. That was Mycroft's own observation, not Ella's. And the minute he had said it, John's tremor had gone away, possibly for good.

He didn't know what it said about him that the final step to the night's cure had been him taking another human life—if a serial killer could truly be counted as "human."

He looked up to see Sherlock watching him and wondered how much of that internal debate had shown on his face. "I'll have to talk to him," Sherlock finally said. "He really has no idea what the word 'boundary' means."

John couldn't help it. "I think that's a family trait, yeah?" he asked with a grin.

Sherlock's lips quirked upward. "It's possible that Mummy may have mentioned it once or twice."

John took another sip of his tea, savoring the warmth as it spread through his chest on its way down. "It's just as well," he said, letting the words rush out before he could decide not to say them. "Between the two of you, you're pretty remarkable therapists. In just a few hours, you got rid of my limp and the tremor in my hand."

"Don't be silly, John," Sherlock told him. "That's not therapy. That's friendship. I would have thought you'd know that."

"I do," said John. "But from what I've been told tonight, I wasn't sure you did."

Sherlock waved his hand. "Oh, let me guess, my brother told you I'm incapable of having a friend. No doubt Sally was happy to bend your ear, as well." He wrapped his hands around his mug, as if absorbing its warmth, like he was suddenly cold. "Do you believe them?"

John put his mug down with a thump, splashing tea on the table. "Sherlock, I _shot_ a man for you tonight. Do you really think I do that for just anyone?"

Sherlock didn't look up. "You're a soldier. You might."

Well, John couldn't deny there was truth to that. "Okay, fair point. I'm a doctor and a soldier. So yeah, helping people is what I do. I might have shot that cabbie anyway if it would save a life. But tonight?" John shook his head, marveling at this observational genius being so dense. "Tonight, Sherlock, was all about saving my new friend."

He thought Sherlock's hands tightened briefly on the mug, but there was no other reaction. "But you're still having nightmares."

"They're an occupational hazard," John said shortly. "Believe me, it has nothing to do with shooting that cabbie and saving your life. I reckon I did London a favor tonight and I've no regrets on that score."

"So, tonight's nightmare?"

Fractured images of Sherlock on the ground, poisoned, or bleeding from a shot John's shaking hand had missed, flitted through his head but he ignored them. "Not relevant," he told him. "But thanks for waking me up. I'll try not to make a habit of it."

Sherlock nodded and they sat in companionable silence for a few moments while John shook off the last of his nightmare. It wasn't even five a.m. and he'd gotten less than two hours of sleep, but he wasn't the least bit tired.

John glanced looked at the window, brightening in the early morning sun. "Look at that," he said. "It's a new day."

For the first time in ages, it was a hopeful thought. He wondered how early he could go fetch his things from his bedsit, suddenly eager to begin his new life.

And looking across the table at his new flatmate, John smiled.


End file.
